Damage Control
by Milk and Glass
Summary: Addison/Izzie request oneshot. Addison's turn for comfort - Izzie heads down to L.A. on a midnight flight to comfort an upset and needy Addie.


When you get the call, it's past midnight, and you're jerked out of a deep sleep that's become your norm. As an intern, and now a resident, who sleeps when she can, you've turned into one of those people who are asleep a second before they hit the pillow. You never used to be a deep sleeper – in fact, you used to be up and down all night – but now you scowl at the shrieking silver rectangle and strain, contact lens-less, to see the number.

You come fully awake when you recognize the area code.

She's gone – she left three months ago, and you never heard from her again. You assumed she continued her successes in the land of Hollywood and palm trees but you never tried to find out. You know that Mark occasionally calls her. You also know that she's working at a medical co-op somewhere in Santa Monica. But she left without saying anything – she left everything unfinished, everything confused, and nights that were spent lying in bed curled in her arms turned into empty nights where holding a pillow is just not the same thing.

You consider not answering it. Then, you change your mind. She wouldn't call this late if there wasn't a reason.

"Hello?"

Your voice is matter-of-fact and sleepy, and for a moment, there's silence on the other end. Could it be a wrong number? Your stomach is fluttering nervously and you wish you could fast-forward time a few seconds. Then,

"Hey." It's Addison's voice and it's shaky and a little stuttery, and you almost forgive her for everything, just to hear the husky tremble in her voice.

"Addison?" Your voice is still incredulous, and she sighs on the other end.

"I'm sorry, I know it's late."

"I'm just . . . well . . . why are you calling here?" You come straight to the point. She's never been one to beat around the bush and you're not one to do so either. Mind games, word games, there's no time for either in your lives and she doesn't mince words.

"I miss you. I miss Seattle. And I kind of hate it here."

"So why did you leave?" There's a million questions you need to ask her. There's a million things you want to say, but she's crying. And it's so, so rare when Addison cries that you're kind of shocked into submission.

"I just . . ." She sighs again. "This is so unlike me. I'm so sorry. I just needed to talk to someone who was outside of it all. I needed to hear a good friend's voice."

You're a little flattered, although you push the feeling down to focus on the betrayal. "I think I'm probably more than a good friend, Addison. You fucked me and then you left me – I might not have stayed a good friend in your estimation, but I was more than a mere giggly gal pal."

To your horror, she starts to sob on the other end of the phone. You quickly apologize. "Addison, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I need someone here . . . someone who hasn't got a family or other obligations or hates me."

You lie back on your pillow; you stare at the ceiling, and suddenly, you hate yourself for doing it when you're sure she wouldn't do it for you.

"I'll be on the next flight out."

As you pack, you tell yourself that it's only because you feel sorry for her. It has nothing to do with what you had, or what you hope will transpire in the dry heat and crashing waves.

As you touch down on the tarmac at five AM (you managed to sleep a little on the plane, but not much), you yawn and stretch. You've already left a message on Richard Webber's machine, telling him that you've had to travel suddenly for a family emergency. It's not true, but you don't plan to stay long in L.A. and he's understanding, anyway.

You get off the plane and make your way to the arrivals gate, where you see a tall, red-haired woman standing awkwardly to one side, dressed in capris and a grey sweatshirt. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail; her face is white and her eyes are red-rimmed. And you nearly miss the fact that it's Addison – she looks completely different; thinner, less poised, and definitely tired. Your heart wrings, although you've put up your guards already.

She sees you and tries to give you a smile, but doesn't quite make it. And suddenly, you don't really care – you put your arms around her and draw her close, breathing in the scent of her hair and pressing your lips to her forehead, and she sighs and lets you, even though it's in public.

"So, I got here," you murmur, your hand moving over her back.

She murmurs back, against your neck, "Thank God."

You spend the morning sleeping – she's obviously not ready to talk to you, no matter what she said on the phone. She's sitting with a glass of what looks like ice water but what you fear is vodka on her sofa, and she must have called in sick to work, too, because she's going nowhere.

"I hate daytime TV," she announces as you come down the stairs and rub a hand over your eyes.

"Well, yeah. Most people are at work right now. They market it towards drama-loving stay-at-home-moms and shut-ins."

"Like, who cares if this woman's baby's father isn't this guy? So she goes on welfare. There's an answer for everything."

You raise an eyebrow. "Um, no. It's not easy to get on welfare, for one, and for two . . ." You stop, realizing that this isn't about Maury Povich or Jerry Springer or any show she's been glued to for the last three hours, and then she proves it by bursting into tears.

You trail over to the couch and sit beside her, close, but not too close to her. "You want to tell me what the hell's going on or am I just going to have to watch you cry?"

"I feel sick," she mutters, and then heaves forward. She doesn't throw up, but you're not waiting to see if she will, so you guide her towards the bathroom off the front hall and wait until she stops dry-heaving. While she's being sick, you sniff the glass. Yep, vodka.

"When did you start drinking in the mornings? What the hell is even happening out here, Addie? You're a totally different person . . ."

"That's what it is. That's what it is." She's sobbing and pathetic and snotty and gross, and you don't want to hold her, but you do. And her sobs slow down and you sit her back down on the couch and force it out of her.

"Tell me now."

"I just can't. It was supposed to be a fresh start and it was supposed to be something fun and different and now it's just hell. I go to work and they all stare at me and Naomi tries to understand, but she's got a daughter and an ex-husband who still loves her and her own problems, and he just STARES at me, he's so fucking condescending, and I just can't take it anymore. I'm out of my element. I'm totally confused. It's not getting better."

And there it is. You put a hand on her knee. "So, drinking is the answer?"

"Drinking only happened today," she defends herself, and sighs, wiping at her eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve. "I just needed someone who cares. And you always cared."

"Yes, but you didn't," you can't help putting in, although this is not the time nor is it the place for any of it.

"I did. I just couldn't when it was a horrible mess. I owe you a huge apology and I thought about you when I was on the plane but I never knew how to tell you that it wasn't your fault I left, it was my fault. I'm fucked up."

"That's your stock answer," you say, and then shut up and move closer to her. "You can't fix it by running away. When are you going to learn?"

"When are you going to learn not to get yourself into crappy situations, example, me?" she bats back, but she leans her red head on your shoulder and you cuddle her, letting her lean against your chest and be cradled by your body. She sighs and closes her eyes.

You both end up falling asleep on the couch in the minted morning light – the quiet is a welcome change to the bustle that's both your lives.

The sex takes place when you wake up. You're both rumpled and sore and muzzy-mouthed, but it's been so long for both of you and the sexual desire wins. She traces her hands down your chest and you move your fingers over her clit and she comes and cries out, her back arching. When you come, it's quieter, but satisfying.

"I'm glad I came," you whisper to her, her whorled ear close to your mouth as she listens to your heart rate slow.

She doesn't say anything for a long time – she knows you're going back when this is over and she doesn't want to think about it, but after awhile, her breathing slows and you think she's asleep.

And then she raises blue eyes to yours and a flash of the old smile illuminates her face.

"Thank you."


End file.
